


My love is vengeance

by Lost_childe (tamy_blue)



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 10:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamy_blue/pseuds/Lost_childe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do you know The Who's song "Behind Blue eyes"? How many times did you think this song talks about Spike? Well, this is a little AU fic about that. Pete Townshend did write that song thinking in Spike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Marquee

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER"characters are not mine, they belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the W. B, UPN and FOX, blablabla. I'm only having a little fun with them. This story belongs to me, and which I have no commercial purpose".
> 
> Author's babling: Please, english is my second or third language, so don't be too hard with me. I swear I'm trying my best.  
> Please, feedbacks are my drug. I need them to know if I should keep working on this, or just shut the f*ck up. So let hear your outraged screams! Thank you!

**July1964,No.90 Wardourstreet,Soho,London.**

_(Spike's POV)_

****  
  
The Marquee makes honour to its fame. It was hard to find it at first because they changed their address only a few months ago. ' _Not bad_ ', you say to yourself looking around. You don't know if it is due to its relatively recent opening, but in the Marquee tonight is so crowded that there is barely space to breathe.  
Nursing your beer you fight your way through the crowd until you reach the front row.

The first to go on-stage, between the shouting and dense gray plumes of the cigarette smoke, is a young guitarist. He's tall, ungainly, with a prominent nose, and dark long hair that hangs down covering his face. Stupidly _'his'_ memory bites you like an angry snake, hissing in your blood, but you numb the pain drinking again. _Not tonight_ , you think angrily.

The band begins to play and only two minutes later you are screaming enraptured by the music. God, they are great, brutal, chaotic. The music embraces you, transporting you beyond your senses until they collapse. It makes you howl, and your voice is lost among the shouts of the crowd. You are all like wild wolves instinctively responding to the Night's call.

The vocalist faces you arrogantly with his harsh voice, nearly spitting some of the words, taunting you. In the background, the drummer strikes the skins like a demon possessed playing with the ghost of your heartbeat. However, the best of all them is without a doubt is the guitarist as he struts up and down the stage, jumping, a prisoner of a delicious frenzy. Chords created by his fingers fly by you, over you, inside you like dense drops of poison. Suddenly, in one of his rounds he stands in front of you; with his forehead sweating, eyes dazed, running his right arm against the strings in a maniac whirlwind.

You lose the notion of time and space. You're barely aware of what you are doing; you think you can hear yourself screaming, dancing in unison with those around you, prisoners as you are, of the madness that emanates from the scenario, like blood from a wound.

Your throat roars hoarsely when the drums shatters, a drumstick flies at speed narrowly missing your head. It is incredible! Those fellas are gods! Their music is a masterpiece, it's an ode to disaster and chaos, a destructive catharsis that culminates when the guitar clatters against the ground.

The dark haired musician drops what little remains of his instrument on the floor once the music stops, and looks around as if he doesn't know where he is. For a second your eyes meet, and although you know that is impossible, during that fleeting moment, you swear that you can see in the bottom of his dilated pupils, the shadow of your lost soul.


	2. Woodstock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER"characters are not mine, they belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the W. B, UPN and FOX, blablabla. I'm only having a little fun with them. This story belongs to me, and which I have no commercial purpose".
> 
>  
> 
> Notes: Again, if you wanna point out my mistakes, I would be glad to listen to you. Just please, not flames. It's not my intention to offend anyone.
> 
> Then…I think I have to explain a few things about my own fanfiction. My spangles fics are about a hypothetical fifth season of ATS. Angel and Spike are still "living" in W&H's facilities, but they're reformed and a little less... evil. One day I'll write that story... I hope all this won't make you to run in the opposite direction.

 

  
**Saturday** **August** **16,** **1969;** **Woodstock,** **USA.**

_(Pete Townshend's POV)_

  
You should be nervous, but the LSD softens the edges of reality and turns your guitar into a hatchet that kills your stage fright. This is your night. Nothing can go wrong. The stars have guided you up to this moment; this is where you will fulfill your destiny.

You go on to the stage and a human sea waves and howls in front of you. Lovingly, you touch your guitar, a "Special" Gibson, and you sigh because you really like this guitar. A part of yourself regrets that first time you broke your instrument by accident in that dirty joint.

Finally, everything gets silent; people wait expectantly, hungry of you. You adjust a little better your jacket of the Union Jack, your inseparable and faithful friend, and strum the taut strings of your guitar, letting the first notes flow. You hear the rest of your teammates follow you in this leap into the void, as if they were very far away from you.

Your soul jumps, fights, struggles trying to escape from the prison of your body. The crowd rages at your feet as a sparkling ocean, and you shiver at its beauty. How many of you are here tonight? Thousands, hundreds of thousands; a countless number of bodies, voices, hearts. And it is amazing because you feel like you all are the same one person. A single animal singing under the moon; and you feel running through your body all the energy, all the love, the whole faith, also all the hate, all the fear. As nocturnal flowers every man and woman open their hearts for you; they give you their spirits like an offering to a pagan god. And then you take every one of those feelings; you tattoo them under your skin, lock them into your heart.

Your soul boils as it was hot blood in your veins devouring everything in its path, while your body seems to have life of its own, drunk of immensity. 

It is…wonderful, much better than LSD and alcohol. You feed from the audience that quivers at your feet, and at the same time you feed them back. You all breathe with the same lungs, rebel with an identical cry; you are the same heart beating in some dark corner of an infinite universe.  
Too soon everything becomes too much. You are not even aware of how long you have been in that stage, beating your right arm on the battered strings of your guitar. You can fee it now, it is time to stop, to cross the final frontier, to surrender yourself completely. Your soul exploits inside your chest when the guitar shatters againts the floor and the compact human mass howls, prisioner of your same frenzy.

You're exhausted and slowly start to regain your sanity. You remember where you are, who you are. You look around yourself and see that Moon has blown his drums once again, but you can't say at what point he did it.

Your gaze travels over your restless fans. Then your heart speeds up again when you notice that, in the middle of the crowd, a man remains still, his eyes fixed on you. He is young, blond, and he has beautiful blue eyes in which you fall, from which you don't even want to escape. He knows you are looking exclusively at him, and smiles, that exciting smirk that you've seen before, licking his pale lips. And for a few seconds, you feel this strange sensation piercing your soul, dark and painful…like the first time you saw him.

 

* * *

 

 

 **Today,** **private** **library** **in** **W &H. LA** **,** **USA.**

"My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose..." Spike mentally caresses the sad verses, painfully recognizing himself in them. The vampire morbidly linger in the last words, whispering them overwhelmed: "hungry to no purpose," cried the poet. The desolation draws a bitter smile on his lips, which he hastens to delete drinking his whisky. During a brief moment, Spike wonders if that poor abandoned poet would not be himself.  
"I love what I do not have. You are so far." Conclude the verses, and it is too much for one night. He feels desperate and with sudden violence closes the book and throws it on the coffee table. The dull sound of the book against the noble wood echoes in the silence of the enormous room. It only serves to emphasize his loneliness.

It's late on the office, and he is sure there is no one else in the building, so he decides that a little music won't bother anyone. The leather of the sofa creaks when he stands up and walks across the room until he is beside a large window. There is a great music system, which seems to be very expensive. Spike likes it because in spite of its modernity, it blends well in the warm and classic atmosphere of the library, thanks to its false antique appearance. In fact, it can even play old vinyl, which it is always a pleasure.

However, the blond vampire isn't in the mood to look for something decent in Angel's extensive and boring collection. So he just turns on the radio and fiddles with it, until he finds a bearable station. He needs to get rid of this silence that constrict his chest; this absurd melancholy that the verses have resurrected, reminding him too late why he stopped to read poetry a long time ago.

 


	3. Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER"characters are not mine, they belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the W. B, UPN and FOX, blablabla. I'm only having a little fun with them. This story belongs to me, and which I have no commercial purpose".
> 
> Notes: Mmm, I'm looking for a beta, anyone interested?? ^^

**November of 1969, Pete Townshed's study . San Francisco, EEUU.**

 

_(Townshend's POV)_

__

The smoke of your cigarette draws grey spirals toward the ceiling and you follow them through narrowed eyes. It's already half past six in the morning and you have been working the whole night in your last song, now your sore muscles complain, and your eyes are burning. But you're happy because you got it. It was a complicated creative process, frustrating because continuously you found yourself at a loss of words trying to describe _his_ beauty, unable to convey  _his_  dark nature. Even now you are still unsure of the results, but sadly you shake your head in desperate resignation. Nobody could ever create anything as beautiful as he was.

At least you can take comfort in the knowledge that no one may do so ever; he was too graceful to be of this world. Many times since that night you've wondered if perhaps he was not.

Today his husky voice still resonates in your head. His laughter, dark and tired, as if it was very old. The thump of his boots breaking the silence of your precarious dressing room. Every sound and word, every silent second is in your mind all the time like an old song that get stuck in your head. Since that night, several months ago, you haven't stopped replaying the conversation you had after your concert at Woodstock.

You still don't know how he managed to sneak in, but you didn't care then, and surely you don't give a damn now.

"I thought this time you wouldn't do it". It was the first thing that he said, without even introducing himself. He stared at you for a few seconds with his back still resting on the metal door closed behind him.

Confused, you demanded him to explain himself, and he smiled a bit before answering. "The guitar. I thought you wouldn't break it, not this time". Even now, the memory of his words makes you shudder.

His words hit you hard, because for a few seconds, on that stage, you also believed that. Hearing your own doubts from the lips of a stranger made you feel uneasy, and full of unanswered questions.

With difficulty, you managed to ask him the only thing that you actually knew the answer. " I know you… don't I?"

The boy nodded amused and the white light from the naked fluorescent that illuminated the room made his hair sparkle. "Five years ago, that local of the Soho. You were brilliant, you almost took The Marquee down". You remember perfectly the cadence of his voice, the note of disappointment colouring his words, as if he truly regretted that it didn't happen.

You wanted to know his name, and awaited his answer while letting yourself fall on a battered sofa. He followed your movements in silence until he decided to join you. He still had time to look at you with those extremely clear blue eyes, outlined in black eyeliner, before answering your question.

"I am Tommy", he said, deliberately discovering the lie with a mischievous smile.

"Why did you think I wouldn't break it this time? ", you wanted to know. Perhaps listening to his explanation you could find your own. "You looked… you look tired. Very tired of all this". His words hurt you deeply then, and you still hurt this morning thinking about them.  _Tired of all this_ , he had said making you feel like you've gotten rid of all your skin and he was looking directly at your heart. As if you were made of glass and he could see through it, reading the truth of your soul.

"It is not ... that, exactly," You lied. "It's just that when I started this, I thought it would be different. I wanted to… I want to send a message. But sometimes I'm not sure if the message that people listen is the same that I'm trying to send them. I mean… Have you seen them? Out there, all this people. They are supposed to fight against something, to be looking for love but, a part of me feels that they are only looking for the pieces of my broken guitar".

The silence between you two was long, but not uncomfortable. Sad perhaps, barely interrupted by the screaming on the other side of the walls. The false Tommy sighed then, and he spoke, more to himself than to you, with a deep and distant voice

"Destruction. Love. Are the same Pete. Deep down, they are the same thing." "Not the love that I'm looking for. ", You stubbornly contradicted.

"The love that you are looking for doesn't exist. That only lives in fairy tales, and Percy Sledge's songs. That love is not real. The authentic love shatters everything in its path. It changes you inside and out, it dynamites your soul, makes you go crazy. Destroys everything you are, it hits you until it leaves you breathless. Love is the brother of hatred and pain. It is short-lived, you always seem to lose it too soon. Love is the poison of the heart, the vengeance of the blood."

He looked so lost and hurt while he was speaking that you felt the impulse to hug him and try to chase away the pain from his eyes. But you just stared at him, overwhelmed by the immensity of his words.

In that moment he really seemed to be very old, and yet his body was a perfect work of youth and vitality. Remembering him now with that lithe athletic body, his sweet eyes, the solemnity of his soul… you wonder again now, if maybe he wasn't an archangel fallen from Heavens? Perhaps… thrown out of Paradise?

"Listening to you someone would believe that you know what you're talking about",your bad joke made him smile again, but it was also as if he had built a wall around himself.

"Well, it's only an hour till dawn. I have to look for my girl, and find where to sleep off the hangover", you were about to ask him to stay with you but refrained yourself and only offered him your hand, that he shaked friendly.

He turned around and opened the door, the noise from the outside breaking into the room as an intruder. Before he left, you remember that he gave you a last ice-cold glance.

"Hold on Pete, I know that it's not easy. Being always the bad guy is harder than people believe, but what you do is important". Being always the bad guy is harder than people believe…that phrase was then engraved forever into your heart. Tommy finally got out, leaving you lost in a blue fantasy of vindictive love.

You started to work in this new song the next morning, experimenting with your new guitar, willing to change that sad truth. Ready to unmask the loneliness hidden behind his sharp smile, ready to scream at the world how much it hurts to play the role of villain. You wanted everybody to knew what they had never bothered to know. And you wanted  _him_  to know that during that brief conversation, you discovered the ocean of broken dreams that roared inside his cruel blue eyes.


	4. A Poet's soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER"characters are not mine, they belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the W. B, UPN and FOX, blablabla. I'm only having a little fun with them. This story belongs to me, and which I have no commercial purpose".
> 
> Author's babling: Well, this is the last chapter. I hope you like it, and please forgive my english! Thank you for reading!

 

 **Today,**   **private**   **library**   **in**   **W &H. LA**  **,**   **USA.   (Angel's POV)**

You’ve been at least one hour in front of the elegant doors of the library; you don’t dare to enter. You know that Spike is on the other side of the door, lying on the leather couch, surrounded by exquisitely ancients books. Listening to _your_ music, drinking _your_ whisky. At first, when you passed by and smelled him, you were going to Kick him out of there. But then you heard him muttering some sad poetry, and his voice sounded so dejected that you just stayed frozen with your hand on the knob of the door. Something bothered him then, because suddenly he changed his posture, throw in a bad way the book on the table and shortly after that he got up to turn the radio on. Too much silence, you guess. Your Childe never liked the solitude or the silence, because in the complete silence is when your ghosts can be heard, whispering words that you don't want to hear, dusting off memories that you would rather keep in oblivion. _God_ , you thought for a moment, _don't let him touch my vinyls_. But he didn’t, he just placed with the tune, until he found a station of old hits and refilled his glass of whisky.

    You sigh sadly. Not even you know how he can be there, with the enormous wooden bookshelves, the familiar smell of ink and ancient paper, aftertaste of dust asleep in your throat. How can he hide in there, with _that_ memorie lurking in every corner. Maybe that is why Spike moves again in his sit. You can visualize him perfectly; a leg on one of the arms of the sofa, the other painfully resting on the delicate carved table, head slightly tilted, avid eyes on the book. You want to open the doors and take him out of there. But now it is not because he’s in the library without your permission. Now you just want to protect, save him from himself, from his past, to save him from what you did to him so long ago, in a place too similar to this. And you don't understand it. This obsession to come back, to hold on to the bad memories, relive the pain. Spike loves to poke that wound, preventing it to heal. Perhaps, you thinks, it is only that his wound is still open, bleeding since then. Maybe that is what shines in the bottom of his eyes, the mystery of his body. But, how do you save him from that? If you cant even open the door of the library. If every time you have him before you, your blood boils and you barely can control the desire to hit him against the wall. The need to stake him on the chest; to kiss him until the next Apocalypse.

   A guitar slips into the room, random deep, dark and dense notes swirling in the air. You think you recognize the song, but you're not sure. Who if seems to recognize it is Spike, because  you can feel how your Childe stands and turn up the volume.

_"No one knows what it's like to be the bad man, to be the sad man behind blue eyes"_

The verse steals Spike’s breath, as if it was too much effort, as if the smallest of movement hurt him badly. You don’t understand it but you can smell his sudden desperation, the cry that it is breaking him inside, as a mirror against the force of your fist.

_"No one knows what it's like to be hated To be fated to telling only lies"_

It is too much, you cannot stand it any longer; the pain that emanates from Spike is unbearable, and no one deserves so much suffering. So without thinking about it too much you turn the door knob, and it opens heavily. Spike is facing the window, oblivious to everything, lost in the dark.

_" But my dreams they aren't as empty As my conscience seems to be…"_

The voice keeps singing bitterly, followed by the sad guitar chords, and a bass player that sometimes assumes too much prominence. You save the distance that separates you from Spike, and without saying a word, you embrace him, kissing his hair. He melts into your arms, sighing at the contact with your body. As if he had been sore and your skin would calm the pain. When Daltrey declares that:

_"I have hours, only lonely My love is vengeance that's never free"_

You have already kissed Spike’s lips. You lick the silent tears that are running down his cheeks, stroking gently the body that trembles against yours, like a beautiful violin in your hands. Because only you know what he’s really hiding, what has always been hidden behind these blue eyes: the poet with the most beautiful soul that will ever exist.


End file.
